In Sin and Error Pining
by MsWhich
Summary: "It turned into a regular occurrence. Once a month, Gabriel would make his excuses and head down to Earth. Beelzebub always picked the location, and it was always some dive with blacked-out windows and sticky floors." (A meditation on wings, the failed Apocalypse, and the mortifying ordeal of being known.) Beelzebub/Gabriel.


"I'm not doing anything wrong."

Gabriel, resplendent in Savile Row's finest, stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of this dive bar in Hackney, or at least he would have, if anyone had been looking in his direction. Which they weren't, and wouldn't; he'd made sure of that.

"Right, becauzzze angelzz _can't_." Beelzebub, on the other hand, fit right in with zir worn, outdated clothing. Zhe'd left off the usual fly hat and sash but otherwise looked more or less the same as usual — tattered frock coat, high white collar, pinstriped trousers, sensible oxford shoes. Zhe sprawled loosely over a wooden chair that looked like it was being held together by imagination and perhaps a few wads of gum.

"Well… yes, actually." Gabriel gave zir a tight smile.

The Lord of the Flies lifted zir glass of brown ale and drank off half of it in one go. "Zzo I zzuppose you told your people _exactly_ what you were doing on Earth? Giving them updatezz, are you?" Zhe fixed him with a steady stare and the corner of zir mouth twitched ever so slightly.

As a matter of fact, he hadn't seen the need to inform Upstairs of exactly who he was meeting down here. He'd said something vague about looking in on the traitors and maybe doing a blessing or two if he had time.

"None of your business," he told his adversary. Adversary. Enemy. That's what zhe was. Important to remember that.

This meeting had been zir idea. Trade notes, make sure the traitors weren't up to anything. Zhe'd convinced him to have a drink so he'd fit in better, and he had to admit this whiskey wasn't terrible. And it was making everything go pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

Zhe laughed, throwing zir head back and exposing zir long, pale neck. "That'zz not a yezz," zhe said, and then shrugged. "Not that it matterzz anyway. Zzix thouzzand fucking yearzz for nothing."

Gabriel drained off the rest of his Lavagulin and miracled himself another one from the bar. "Yeah," he said. Beelzebub leaned zir head back against the tacky wood paneling on the wall and cast zir eyes Heaven-ward. The two sat in silence for several minutes.

"You know," Gabriel said, "I wanted to kill Aziraphale so fucking bad." He paused for a moment. "Wow," he muttered. "Didn't mean to say that out loud."

Beelzebub's eyebrows shot up with shocked glee, resembling a child who's just been surprised with a puppy. "_Did_ you, archangel?" zhe asked.

Gabriel hummed noncommittally.

"Go on," Beelzebub urged.

Gabriel shrugged. Might as well, at this point. "God, it's hot in here," he said. He pulled the silk scarf from around his neck and threw it carelessly over the back of his chair. Probably get filthy there, but he couldn't be assed to care at this point.

"So yeah, about the fucking traitor," he said. Beelzebub's eyes lit up with _hunger_. Zhe was eating this up, and it made him want to open up and tell zir absolutely everything. Even if zhe was the adversary. Fuck, what did adversary even _mean_ anymore? What did anything mean? Everything had gone to shit.

Gabriel leveled his gaze across the table at his counterpart. Beelzebub's eyes were gray, with lightning-gold flecks; had he ever noticed that before? He didn't think so. Hadn't really had the chance. He wondered if zhe noticed his violet ones. He was really proud of his eyes, had picked the color specially.

"Archangel. The traitor…?"

He snapped back to reality. "Yeah," he said. "Azir—zirpha—" Fuck, his tongue felt like it was the wrong size for his mouth all of a sudden. "_Aziraphale_" —there we go— "was colluding, no, _fraternizing, _with your man for, shit, God knows how many years. Millennia, probably. Rubbing our faces in it. And then that smirking son of a bitch had the _gall_ to—" He broke off. Even inebriated, he had his limits, and he wasn't about to tell an agent of Hell how one of his own fucking people had breathed Hellfire in his face.

"Not one of ourzz," Beelzebub said. "Not anymore. Not for a long time. Don't know when we lozzt him but probably about the zzame time you lozzt your angel." Zhe took another drink, looking contemplative. "I wazzz really looking forward to dizzzzzolving him in holy water," zhe said.

"This year has been full of disappointments," Gabriel said.

"Mm," Beelzebub agreed, leaning zir head back against the wall and closing zir eyes.

Another long silence. Gabriel swirled his whiskey around his tongue. Maybe he shouldn't have given Aziraphale such a hard time about the whole "sullying your mortal vessel" thing; he thought he could develop a liking for this stuff. Burned nicely going down the throat, and softened the edges around the world. Gabriel felt like he could use some softness these days.

"Seen them lately?" he asked after a while.

"They moved in together," zhe said without dropping a beat.

Gabriel shifted his eyes toward zir without moving his head. "You're shitting me," he said.

"I wish," zhe said. "They miracled hizz bookzzhop to have a flat upzztairs. Crowley'zz there all the time. Zzleepzzz there."

"Sleeps," Gabriel said flatly.

"Yep."

"Jesus."

Beelzebub's face flickered with amusement.

"What?" Gabriel asked.

"I'll never get tired of that, archangel," zhe said.

He cocked a perfectly-groomed eyebrow. "Seriously, what?"

"An angel of the Lord using the Name in vain," zhe said.

Gabriel's face warmed. He _was_ an archangel, yes, but by definition that meant he _couldn't_ do wrong. Which meant that mild swearing was just fine. Nobody even _talked_ about the Third anymore.

"It's not a big deal," he said. "Doesn't mean anything."

"Doezzzzzn't it," Beelzebub drawled out.

"Anyway," Gabriel said firmly, feeling his worldview developing a wobble and wanting to veer away from the topic, "you heard anything from your people on…"

He trailed off, unsure how to even end that sentence. On Armageddon? On the fact that the Antichrist was currently grounded by his parents for a week like a regular human boy, because that's what he _was_ now? On Gabriel and Beelzebub's utter failures to prevent this massive cock-up from happening? On a god-damned demon taking a bath in holy water and an angel of the Lord breathing hellfire into his, Gabriel's, fucking face?

Beelzebub watched all of this travel across Gabriel's features and gave him a flat smile. "Not a word," zhe said. "Yourzzz either, I azzume."

"Not a word," he confirmed.

"Probably for the bezzzzt," Beelzebub said, and snapped zir fingers for another beer. "Let'zzz get trazzzhed, Gabriel."

Gabriel didn't entirely know what that meant, but fuck it, he was game. He lifted his glass in Beelzebub's direction and drained it off again. Zhe smiled and miracled him another. "On me, angel," zhe said.

—

It turned into a regular occurrence. Once a month, Gabriel would make his excuses and head down to Earth. Beelzebub always picked the location, and it was always some dive with blacked-out windows and sticky floors. And zhe always had some new alcohol to ply him with. He wouldn't admit it, but he actually liked the vodkas and gins and whiskeys that kept getting shoved across the table at him. He liked the taste, and he liked the way they made him feel. And he liked the way Beelzebub got when zhe'd had a few zirself.

"You're pretty, angel," zhe said on one of these evenings, swirling amber liquid in a dirty glass and eyeing it with an appraising glance. "But not soft pretty. Hard pretty."

"Hard pretty?" he asked, preening a little at what he was fairly sure was a compliment.

"Mm-hm. Not all curls and rosy cheeks like the traitor." On the word _traitor_, a cloud of flies swarmed into the air briefly before settling again. "You're angles—"

"Angels," he corrected. Zhe glared at him.

"Zzhut up, idiot. _Angles_. You're all angles and hard lines. And… I don't know, _holy_."

Gabriel considered this. "Weird. Wouldn't think you'd like that," he said. "Holy."

Zhe shrugged. "Don't usually. Workzz on you, though. It'zzz like… _mean _holy."

He probably shouldn't have taken that as a compliment, but something squirmed inside him, hot and delicious.

"Yeah, well," he said, "you're mean _un_holy."

Zhe grinned like a diamond-tipped saw blade. "Oh, angel," zhe said, "such a _mouth_ on you."

—

_Two months prior. _

In the tattered and flayed moments after Lucifer sank beneath the tarmac of that dust-swept airbase and the Apocalypse sputtered out like a dying candle, a charged, heavy silence fell on all the participants.

_Well, that's it_, Gabriel thought, stunned, overcome by a rage and panic that threatened to discorporate him, consume him like so much Hellfire. He wanted to scream, wanted to shatter the universe, to reshape it into something that made sense again. _This can't happen, isn't happening, can't happen, isn't happening_ drummed through his mind, a stupid, mocking cadence he couldn't stop. _Everything_, his whole _existence,_ had led to this point, and now what? A smirking demon and a traitorous angel threw it away like so much garbage.

He'd never _felt_ so much before, and he _hated _it.

He needed to _do _something. He was made to fight, made for action. He could have fixed this, could have restarted the engine of the Apocalypse — only he wasn't given the chance. It all fell apart into ashes while he stood there helpless and impotent. Was that ineffable? Was _this_ the ineffable fucking plan?

Prior to this precise moment, everything in his very long life had gone according to the great plan. There were _rules_, and the rules were _followed. _That's the whole point of the rules.

But nothing made sense now. The rules had obviously _not_ been followed. The rules, in fact, appeared to have been entirely irrelevant, entirely without consequence. Gabriel's vast and angelic mind could barely contain this reality. His certainty fractured, doubt cracking the edges of his soul — _doubt_, more dangerous for an angel than anything in the universe. More dangerous than Hellfire. But here he was, defeated, helpless, _doubting._

In that frozen, gasping moment, he looked up and locked gazes with Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies, his eternal, infernal adversary. In zir eyes, he saw something writhing and raging and terrified. Something he _recognized._

_This is all gone wrong_, the look said, _and we are _fucked_._

Gabriel's stomach twisted and dropped. He felt _seen_, truly seen, for maybe the first time in his life. _Zhe knows_, he thought with a broken, helpless relief. _Zhe understands. _The screaming in his mind quieted, the panic calmed, and he came back to himself, still angry but no longer feeling as if his rage would burst its banks and carry him with it.

He didn't look at Beelzebub again. He didn't have to. From that moment forward, he knew exactly where zhe was, knew it like he knew the location of his own wings. When zhe left the airfield and descended back to Hell, he shivered with zir sudden absence.

_Huh, _he thought. _That's new._

Two days later, after Aziraphale and the demon got away scot-free, he was consumed with the need to see Beelzebub again. Just see zir, that's all. See zir eyes, zir face. See if zhe felt the same as he did.

He didn't even need to talk to zir, not really. Just wanted to be near zir.

His head snapped up and he shook himself, wingtip to wingtip. God, what was _wrong_ with him? _Zhe is the adversary_, he told himself sternly. Then he wondered how many times Aziraphale had told himself that about Crowley.

But no — this was different. Different in some ineffable way that was beyond his capacity to explain. This wasn't _fraternizing_. He just wanted to see zir, that's all.

That was really all.

And at any rate, if it were wrong, he wouldn't be able to do it. He was an archangel. That's how things worked. It was one of those fundamental truths of the universe that you could rely on, even when the earth cracked around you and angels fraternized with demons and the apocalypse ground itself to a shuddering halt.

—

In his time as a loyal, if somewhat indifferent, servant of Heaven, Gabriel had occasionally flirted with the Seven Deadlies. He'd succumbed to Vanity from time to time, and just as often to Pride. Wrath, sure, that one was barely even considered a sin for angels; they were, after all, made to be soldiers. But in all that time, all those years, the long, slow press of millennia, he'd never felt Lust or its fraternal twin, Desire. He'd never truly _wanted_, never felt that sick-sweet need to possess something, to forget one's own self completely in the quest to have it. Angels weren't made for desire. Angels shouldn't _want._

But Gabriel, for the first time in 6,000 years, did.

His desire settled into the fractures of doubt in his soul like freezing water, silently and secretly widening and expanding them, making fissures out of cracks, making chasms out of fissures. By the time he got the invitation to meet with Beelzebub, the paper reeking of sulfur and brimstone, he didn't hesitate before sending his reply back.

_Yes, I'd be delighted to meet you for a discussion of recent events. — G._

I want to see you, he didn't write. I need to see you.

Please, he didn't say.

Please.

—

_Present day_

Gabriel stood sideways to the full-length mirror he'd manifested for the purpose, eyeing his cobalt-blue suit and brushing an invisible speck of lint off the lapel. It looked good, but... He hummed to himself. It could look better. With a wave of his hand, he swapped it for a navy blue Italian-cut version that showed off his corporation's trim, muscular lines a little more effectively.

The suit would inevitably end up stained and ruined from whatever filthy hole in the wall Beelzebub had picked for them this time, but that wasn't the point.

He put quite a bit of time and care into preparing for these meetings. Picking out just the right color of pocket handkerchief, getting the right shine to his shoes. Choosing just the right cufflinks to catch Beelzebub's eye. His favorite were a matched pair of little gold angel wings. A little on-the-nose, perhaps, but last time he'd worn them zhe'd noticed and smirked. So, worth it.

He looked forward to these rendezvouses. More than he looked forward to anything else in his life, as a matter of fact.

He paused at this thought, hands frozen in the middle of knotting his tie. He met his eyes in the mirror. "What the fuck are you doing?" he breathed.

Zhe was a _demon_. Not just a demon, but a Prince of Hell. If anyone found out...he thought of what he'd tried to do to Aziraphale. Gabriel was pretty sure he himself was not immune to Hellfire. And what Hell would do to Beelzebub… he closed his eyes against a sudden wave of nausea. Yeah, he wasn't going to think about that at _all_.

But no one was going to find out. And even if they did, he was an archangel, right? Angels couldn't do wrong.

Somehow, this thought was less reassuring than it used to be.

He could always just stop seeing zir. Just go back to the way things used to be, when he spent all of his time in the office, admiring the view and drawing up plans and strategies. Plans for winning a war that would never actually happen. Strategies that would evaporate into smoke the second they were put to the test. If that was his life's work, what did that say about his life?

Seeing Beelzebub was really the only thing he cared about anymore. So, fuck plans and strategies, fuck paperwork, and really, fuck the view. It got a little same-ish after 6,000 years anyway.

—

The next time they met, Beelzebub introduced him to something called Laphroaig. It was smoke-rich and smooth, and every time his glass emptied, Beelzebub smirked and filled it again.

A few hours later, Gabriel became dimly aware that he was sitting on the floor, with Beelzebub using his side as a backrest. Zhe was pressed against him shoulder to hip, working zir way through a martini glass filled with something bright green. Gabriel's scarf and tie had gone AWOL at some point during the evening, although he felt he still looked _remarkably_ well put-together under the circumstances.

"Beez," he said.

"_Don't_ call me that," zhe said, gesturing abstractly with zir glass. Fizzy green something slopped out of the side.

"'m not saying Beelzebub every time," he said. "Too many sibba—syllabub—anyway, it's too much."

"You just said it perfectly," zhe pointed out.

He ignored this. "Pick something easier," he said.

"Oh, like _Gabriel?" _zhe said, infusing the word with dripping, venomous sarcasm.

Gabriel preened. "Well, I wasn't going to say so, but you could do worse than that."

"Arse," Beelzebub told him. "Anyway, it's my _name_. Can't just go around changing your _name._"

"Crowley did," Gabriel pointed out.

"Yeah, and look what happened to him, _Archangel_."

He went warm all over. He was aware that when zhe called him that it wasn't meant kindly or as a compliment—he wasn't _actually _stupid—but he perversely enjoyed it every time anyway.

A thought intruded into Gabriel's whiskey-soaked brain. "Next time," he said, "I get to pick where we go."

Beelzebub twitched and made a surprised noise. This was a first for Gabriel; he never, ever talked about the next time. Never made any acknowledgment that this was a regular standing engagement. (And definitely not a date. Angels didn't date, and if they did, they certainly wouldn't date _demons_.) Never even suggested that he might see Beelzebub again after they went their separate ways.

But Gabriel was too far gone on top-shelf Scotch to care about any of that.

"What'zzz wrong with this place?"

Gabriel noted, pleased, that this was not a refusal. "It's filthy, loud, and there's something soaking into my pants."

"That'zzz becauzzze you're sitting on the floor."

Several minutes of silence passed while Gabriel pondered the truth of this statement and tried to come up with a pithy rejoinder.

"Yeah, but so are you." He allowed himself a smile. Nailed it.

The Prince of Hell sighed deeply and muttered something under zir breath that sounded a little like, _why did it have to be such a stupid one?_

"What?" Gabriel said.

"I said, all right," Beelzebub said, which was clearly not what zhe'd said at all, but Gabriel was smug enough about getting his way that he was willing to let it go.

Another thought intruded. "So," he asked, "you ever get around to telling your people about these, uh, meetings?" This was also new; Gabriel never, ever, _ever _acknowledged that he and Beelzebub were doing anything clandestine. That they, in fact, might be _fraternizing. _

"Fffffuck, no," Beelzebub said, vibrating with laughter against his side. "You?"

"Same."

For a while after that, they sat in companionable silence. Gabriel measured the in-and-out cadence of his breaths against those of Beelzebub. Zirs were faster; he wondered if that's because zhe was physically smaller than him. He had always admired zir corporation. Compact, sleek, sturdy. Zir skin looked softer than his, paler. He was sure it must feel smoother than his. And zhe was warm to the touch; he knew that from where zhe slumped against his side. Zir hair smelled of brimstone and smoke.

"Your hair smells like Hell," he said.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the Prince of Hell using him as a cushion. "I know."

Gabriel considered this. "I like it," he added.

"Idiot."

Eight whiskeys ago, he might have been put off by this. Instead, he bent his head down close to the crown of zir head, inhaling deeply.

"Zzztupid angel," Beelzebub muttered, but zhe made no move to dislodge him.

A while later, he said, "Claridge's. Month from today." He and Sandalphon had gone to Claridge's once after a tailoring session. He remembered it as being shiny. Shiny and expensive.

Beelzebub made a rude noise with zir mouth. "Fuck Claridge's. Try zzzitting on the floor at Claridge's and see what happens."

Gabriel frowned, considering this. Not that he'd necessarily _want_ to sit on the floor, but if he _did_ want to… "I'd like to see them try to stop me," he said. Beelzebub shivered ever so slightly.

"Cold?" he asked.

Zhe snorted. "I'm a _Prince _of _Hell_. I don't get _cold_. And," zhe added, "I don't go to Claridge's."

"How do you even know what Claridge's is?"

Zhe snorted more loudly. "You'd be zzzurprised what I know, archangel."

"Nobody will see you if you don't want them to," Gabriel said. "They didn't here, did they?" He glanced around; not only had nobody seen them, but the bar had closed down around them sometime in the last several hours. Everyone had gone. All the other chairs were put up on tables, and broad swaths of the floor seemed to have been nominally cleaned. Huh. He'd totally missed it happening.

"Fine, then. Claridge's," Beelzebub said, "but if I go, you have to eat something."

Gabriel made a habitual moue of disgust at the idea of sullying his corporation, the impact of which was lessened by the fact that he was still holding a half-full whiskey glass in his hand. "Seriously? Why?"

Zhe shrugged. "Becauzze I want to watch you doing it. And it'zz fun. You like drinking, don't you?"

Was this a temptation? Was he being tempted? Gabriel frowned. Surely it wasn't even _possible_ to tempt an archangel of the Lord. No. If he wanted to do something, it was because it was right and good to do so. He was constitutionally immune to temptation or wrongdoing. Had to be. "All right," he said. "Claridge's, then. For drinks and… and food."

"Settled," the Prince said.

Gabriel closed his eyes and wondered if this is how things had started for Crowley and Aziraphale. A shared glance, a drink, a touch. The comfort and familiarity of being known.

Before the airfield, he'd have been horrified at that thought. Disgusted. But here in this dark, quiet bar, with his demon warm and heavy and soft against him, it seemed all right. It seemed good, even. Maybe he was a little bit glad Aziraphale had managed to survive the Hellfire, made it back to his own demon.

He carded his fingers through Beelzebub's hair, wondering that zir skin didn't burn him to the touch, wondering even more that zhe let him do it without complaint.

_My demon_, he thought, and wasn't that something. Wasn't that just something.

Gabriel paid a visit to his tailor in advance of meeting Beelzebub at Claridge's. Not, mind you, _because_ of the meeting. He was simply in the mood for something new, that's all.

"Your usual, sir?" the tailor said. Approaching his 70s, he was a descendant of the man who had made Gabriel his very first bespoke suit, 400 years prior. Gabriel had a sentimental attachment to the place.

"Ah, no, Frederick," Gabriel told him. "I was thinking...perhaps something a bit different. _Darker. _The darkest, in fact." He smiled toothily.

This was a departure from dozens of suits in various shades of blue that Frederick had made for him over the decades, but the man didn't raise as much as an eyebrow. "Very good, sir. I can show you some fabrics, if you like."

Gabriel settled on a jet-black cashmere suit with subtle white pinstriping, a white shirt and matching pocket square, and a white satin necktie. He stood before the mirror for several minutes, turning to observe himself from all angles. Very high-contrast. Very striking.

He nodded to Frederick. "Perfect, as usual."

Frederick exuded smug satisfaction without actually moving any muscles in his face. "Sir," he murmured.

Gabriel let slip a minor miracle as he left the shop; the local planning commission mysteriously lost the paperwork that had been on file to make the shop's rent increase. He supposed this counted as a frivolous use of a miracle, but it's not like he was, oh, let's say, materializing a _bed_ in his flat for the purpose of sleeping with a _demon _or anything. So he thought he could be allowed a bit of frivolity.

And the suit was _very_ nice. He'd wear his gold angel-wing cufflinks with it. He smiled to himself, imagining the expression on Beelzebub's face when zhe noticed them.

—

Three weeks later, Gabriel leaned against the polished oak of the Claridge's bar, resplendent in black cashmere and white satin, a whiskey snifter dangling from one hand with calculated carelessness. He'd arrived early, wanting to make sure he had time to set up the look he had in mind for when Beelzebub arrived—casual but powerful, elegant but with a hint of menace. He glanced at himself in one of the gilt mirrors behind Claridge's impressive selection of liqueurs.

Perfect.

While he waited, Gabriel's mind drifted to the traitors. He was supposed to check up on them during these visits, but he'd found he couldn't quite stomach it. And really, who cared, anyway? If shacking up with a literal demon wasn't enough to get someone to Fall from God's Grace, what was?

He reflexively wiped that thought out of his mind nearly as fast as it had arrived. He didn't question, not those things, not like that. Somewhere against the back of his eyelids he could still see burning, soot-charred wings, see the faces of old friends contorting into twisted, squirming things while they screamed and screamed and screamed.

Gabriel knew the price of questioning.

He took a drink of his whiskey—Laphroaig again, very nice—and checked his stylish and _very_ expensive watch. The Prince of Hell was ten minutes late. Gabriel wondered if he was about to be stood up. He'd got a little sozzled at their last encounter, a little touchy-feely. Might have put his counterpart off. Or maybe zhe'd got held up with demonic paperwork.

Or maybe zhe'd been given a bath of holy water for failing to bring about the god damned Apocalypse.

Gabriel's chest tightened. _It's not that_, he told himself. _If they were going to do that, they'd have done it the first day._

Still, one's mind wandered to unpleasant places when made to wait.

As Gabriel considered the relative properties of holy water vis a vis demonic skin, the bartender glanced in the direction of the door and said, "Good evening." The familiar prickle of demonic energy hit Gabriel at the same moment as the realization that the Claridge's bartender had left off the customary "ma'am" or "sir" from his greeting, as though he wasn't quite sure which to use. Gabriel turned to look.

It was well that his corporation didn't actually need to breathe. Beelzebub stood framed by the open door, backlit by the setting sun. Zir jet-black hair was slicked back, tapering to the nape of zir neck. Zhe wore a black satin jumpsuit and a matching tailored jacket that featured tiny silver flecks scattered over the shoulders. And zhe wore zir usual oxfords, except instead of black they were a burnished, hellfire red.

Gabriel opened his mouth, closed it again.

"Something wrong, archangel?" zhe said, smirking. As zhe approached him, Gabriel saw that the silver flecks on zir jacket were tiny, stylized, silver flies.

"You look…" _Nice_ seemed desperately inadequate, _stunning _too revealing. "Different," he finally managed.

Zhe tilted zir head back to laugh. Zir neck was long, pale, and elegant. Gabriel wanted to bite it. Startled, he blinked hard and looked away.

"Archangel," Beelzebub was saying, "did you think me incapable of dressing for an occasion?"

Gabriel was torn between answering the question and asking zir exactly what occasion zhe thought this was. He finally went with the former.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, consider this a learning experience."

Zhe wasn't buzzing, he noticed. He hadn't realized that was something zhe could control. Zhe snapped zir fingers and a full pint glass appeared next to her.

"You could have ordered that from the bartender," Gabriel pointed out.

Zhe looked at him blankly. "Why would I do that?" zhe said. "This way I get exactly what I want."

"And I suppose you always get exactly what you want," Gabriel heard himself say.

A slow smile crept across zir face, turning one corner of zir mouth up into a knowing grin. Something deep inside Gabriel twisted and squirmed, a knot winding itself taut inside his stomach.

He thought maybe he liked this feeling. He thought maybe he liked Beelzebub's mouth.

He frowned and stood up a little straighter. _Whoa, whoa, whoa_, he thought. Either he'd had entirely too much whiskey already, or not enough.

"Sometimes," zhe said. "Not always." Zir eyes crackled like distant lightning.

Not enough whiskey, he decided, and gestured at the bartender, who had been completely ignoring the pair. (Gabriel and Beelzebub were not particularly easy to ignore; the ability of Claridge's staff to do so was a testament to their meticulous training.) Another glass of Laphroaig materialized next to him, in the non-miraculous way that things materialize next to you in a really first-rate establishment.

Gabriel looked away from Beelzebub's mouth, but that landed his gaze on zir neck, which wasn't better. He ended up staring somewhere past zir left shoulder. "So," he said, addressing the space behind zir head, "any news from the traitors?" This felt like safe ground, being the nominal reason for their meeting.

Beelzebub rudely expelled a breath. Zhe dropped down onto the stool next to Gabriel, propping a flame-red oxford against the railing at the bottom of the bar. "Saw them yesterday. Had to watch them for a while. You want the details?"

He curled his lip in disgust. "No, thank you."

"There was touching." A significant pause, followed by, "It was wet."

"Gross."

"Yezz."

This was an area where he and the Prince were in perfect agreement. "How do they _touch_ each other so much?" Gabriel said, taking a long swig of his drink.

"Feels good," Beelzebub answered. "Why else would they do it?"

Gabriel glanced at zir. "What," he said flatly.

"Touching," zhe said. "It feels good."

"Being touched by a demon cannot possibly feel _good_. By definition. It would hurt."

"You've touched me, you moron."

Gabriel shook his head. "Through clothes." _Or your hair_, he didn't add, because he wasn't entirely sure Beelzebub had been aware of that. "Not skin to skin."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"It would hurt," he said firmly. Gabriel was utterly, completely confident about this. Demons were foul creatures, made to serve Satan. They thrived in hellfire, a substance that would destroy an angel. Touching a demon's skin would _burn_. Everyone in Heaven knew that.

Not, of course, that anyone had actually tried it. (Other than Aziraphale, and he didn't count. Nobody in Heaven was really sure if Aziraphale was even an angel anymore. Gabriel was privately convinced he wasn't. No angel could spit _hellfire_.)

Beelzebub smirked and tilted zir head back to drain off zir beer, which refilled itself as soon as zhe sat it back down. "Is that what you lot tell yourselves?" zhe asked.

"It's true," Gabriel insisted.

"Is it," zhe said. Gabriel stared into zir lightning-spark eyes.

"Yes," he said, hating how unsteady his voice sounded, unable to look away from zir smirking, exquisite face. "It has to be."

Beelzebub smiled, showing the points of zir teeth. "It's a mystery," zhe said, "how something can be so pretty and yet so stupid."

"Demons and angels are made of conflicting matter," Gabriel said, pressing on valiantly. "If we touched, it would burn." He was very close to Beelzebub, standing almost near enough to press against zir thigh. Zhe smelled of brimstone and woodsmoke, and he felt momentarily dizzy.

Zhe was laughing. "We're of the same stock, you idiot," zhe said. "Give me your hand."

"Uh," he said stupidly, his mind racing. This was a _terrible_ idea. He was _quite certain_ he was right about this, which meant that taking zir hand would burn him, maybe even scar him.

But then again...if he was wrong, that meant he could—that they could—well, at any rate, Aziraphale had done it with Crowley enough times, hadn't he? And...maybe Aziraphale didn't get to be the only angel who did it. Maybe Gabriel _wanted_ to do it.

God, that was a weird thing to think. _What the fuck_ _is wrong with me_, he thought. Thrills of panic licked up and down his spine.

Beelzebub held zir hand out, palm up, and made a little "come on, then" gesture with zir long, elegant fingers. "Hand, moron. Now."

Gabriel was, fundamentally, a soldier. He'd been breathed into existence by the Creator to wield a divine sword, and he'd wielded that sword with strength and grace. He'd fought and slain legions of the Fallen in the First War. He had spent 6,000 years fearing nothing on Earth, Heaven, or Hell.

But his hand trembled as he reached out to touch the hand of his adversary.

Cool, dry fingers wrapped around his, squeezed lightly.

_Oh,_ he thought, and a million fracture lines of doubt cracked open inside his soul. He'd have staggered from the force of it, had he not already been leaning against the bar.

"See, stupid?" Beelzebub said. "Are you on fire?"

_There are other ways to burn_, he thought.

"No," he said, his voice breaking. He supposed he should feel humiliated. Beelzebub still had his hand. Zir fingers were long and flexible, wrapping around his easily and lightly. It felt…

"Told you," zhe said.

_Fuck it,_ Gabriel thought. He carefully placed his whiskey glass down on the bar and lifted the hand that had held it, palm facing Beelzebub.

Zir eyes followed his hand, and zir mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. Slowly—excruciatingly slowly—zhe brought zir own hand up to meet his, pressing zir palm to his palm and interlacing zir fingers with his. The lights in the bar flickered.

"Was that you?" Beelzebub asked. Zir eyes were quite remarkable, Gabriel thought, flashing and sparking as though a perpetual lightning storm raged within. For all zir talk of being made of the same material, he was sure he'd have noticed if any of the Host had eyes like that.

"Don't know," Gabriel said. "Don't care."

"You _like_ this, Archangel."

He swallowed. "I—"

"You like it," zhe repeated, and what was the point of trying to deny it? He closed his mouth.

He met zir eyes. _I was wrong_, he thought. The words expanded within him until they took up his entire corporation, his entire _soul_.

_I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong._

He was an archangel. It wasn't possible for him to be wrong, to _do_ wrong. It wasn't _possible. _Except he'd been wrong. He was lacing fingers with a Prince of Hell, and he hadn't burned. It felt… it fucking felt _good_.

Beelzebub held his gaze as his thoughts spun further and further out of control. If he could be wrong about this, he could be wrong about other things, and if he could _be_ wrong, he could _do_ wrong. What was it Crowley had said? He'd said they didn't know if the Great Plan was the Ineffable Plan.

"Oh, fuck," Gabriel whispered. He _didn't know_ the Ineffable Plan. He didn't know it. He didn't fucking know _anything_. What if all these years—all this time—what if he'd—

He'd tried to kill Aziraphale, and he hadn't felt an ounce of hesitation about it, because he was the archangel fucking Gabriel and that meant he couldn't do wrong—_except he could._

"See?" Beelzebub said softly.

"Did you know?" he asked, brokenly. "Did you—how could I—"

"I know a lot of things, Archangel," zhe said, looking straight into his eyes. Gabriel felt that zir eyes were the only thing keeping him grounded to Earth.

Things of Hell were supposed to be damaged and disgusting, cast down from on High to crawl filthy and forgotten in the dust of the Earth. But Beelzebub was gorgeous, zir blue-black hair slick and shining, zir clothing outlining the sleek lines of zir body. Gabriel felt almost sick with confused wanting.

"Then tell me something," he said, hearing himself as though from a great distance.

Beelzebub's mouth twisted into a half-grin. "Archangel, I'll do you one better. I'll show you."

Zhe squeezed his fingers a little more tightly. "Hold zzstill," zhe said.

He didn't have time to ask why before a bright-hot bolt sparked into him where their hands touched. It seared like liquid fire, lighting up all of his nerve endings. _Demon_, his true form cried out, and he reacted instantly and without thought, exactly as he'd been made to. His whiskey glass fell to the floor, shattering unnoticed on the floor beneath him. His corporation ceased all natural functions, leaving him without breath or heartbeat, and his wings unfurled on the ethereal plane, powerful and vast and trying to emerge into this reality. He reached for a sword that wasn't there, and he thought of falling. Thought of flying.

"Did you just—did you just _curse_ me?" he gasped. His voice rang with celestial harmonics, every glass in the room shivering in resonance.

"Courzze not, you idiot. You think I want to get zzzmited? Just a little demonic energy to prove my point." Beelzebub's eyes flashed darkly. Faced with an archangel on the verge of summoning all of his Heavenly power, zhe stood zir ground and didn't let go of his hands. Gabriel thought he would probably be impressed by that, once he'd regained full control of his mental functioning.

He flexed his fingers within zirs. Demonic energy should have hurt him. Well, it _did _hurt, a bit. But it also… He shivered. His corporation was having quite a bit of trouble deciphering what had just happened to it. _Can you feel pleasure and pain simultaneously_, he wondered, dazed.

"I wouldn't smite you," he said absently. Beelzebub lifted an eyebrow at this.

"Wouldn't you," zhe said.

He didn't answer, lost in thought. What zhe'd done to him should have been agonizingly painful, and it simply _wasn't_. It had knocked him halfway out of his corporation, yes; celestial choirs rang in his ears, and he was still fighting the urge to bring his wings out. But neither of those things _hurt_.

Beelzebub and Gabriel were preoccupied enough not to notice that the situation was beginning to strain even the top-notch training of Claridge's staff. The bartender and the waitress had exchanged several brief but meaningful glances, communicating _Are you watching this_, and _Yes, obviously I am watching this. _The spectacle before them defied explanation: a man in a bespoke Savile Row suit and his arrestingly striking companion—who might be either man or woman; the bartender had decided positively on both at various times since the pair had arrived—were staring into each other's eyes, clasping hands, and _perfectly motionless. _Neither had even _breathed_ for several minutes, and the man appeared to be faintly glowing. Static electricity crackled between them, and the air carried the scent of ozone and sulfur.

No one else was at the bar, even though it was approaching what was usually their busiest time.

Gabriel licked his lips, oblivious to the attention of the humans.

"Do it again," he said.

Beelzebub pushed zir hands forward, closing the distance to Gabriel. "Do it again, _what_," zhe said.

Gabriel stared. Zhe couldn't mean—

"Ask _nicely_, Archangel," zhe said, and oh yes, zhe absolutely _did _mean. He should have bridled at the suggestion. He was an _archangel_. He didn't answer to demons. But he thought about asking Beelzebub _nicely_ because zhe'd told him to, and he felt shivery and weak.

"Do it again, _please_," he said, and a lightbulb over the bar shattered.

Beelzebub grinned widely. Zhe pressed zir hands, still laced with his, against his chest. "You sure, archangel?" zhe said. "You said it would hurt."

"Yeah," he said, wetting his lips with his tongue. "Do it."

Beelzebub tightened zir fingers around his, and zir eyes glowed tungsten white. This pulse hit him like a hammer, bright and hot and hard, forcing a grunt out of his lungs. _DEMON_, his soul shrieked, and oh, this was a _divine_ agony, oh _fuck_, oh _yes. _It rolled like a churning storm from his chest where Beelzebub's fingers pressed, through his heart, his lungs, raining molten rivulets over his ribcage, settling finally into a tight, writhing ball of heat centered somewhere between his… between his shoulder blades….

"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, I have to get out of here—my wings—I can't—"

Beelzebub laughed out loud. "Oh, _angel_," zhe said, zir eyes glowing with silver light.

"S'not funny," he groaned. He gripped zir hands with white knuckles. hard enough to break human fingers. His wings flashed in and out of existence behind him. It felt good, it felt so _fucking_ _good_, but he couldn't _control_ it. His vision went dark around the edges, Beelzebub's grinning face and shining eyes the only thing he could see.

"Says you," zhe said. Zhe pressed zir hands to his chest again. A split second before zhe did it, Gabriel realized what was happening. "No—don't—" But it was too late; zhe sent one last little pulse into his chest.

"_God_," Gabriel said, harmonizing in frequencies audible only on the celestial plane, and his eyes rolled back into his head. The electricity to the entire building went out with a shower of sparks. One of his wings fully materialized behind him, smashing an entire shelf of bottles behind the bar, before he regained control and forced it out of existence again.

"Can't—" he gasped, and Beelzebub at last took pity on him, snapping zir fingers and miracling them both out of the half-destroyed bar.

—

"Why," he moaned, arching his back. "Why does this—" _Feel so good_, he didn't finish.

_This is supposed to hurt_. _Am I Falling? Am I even an angel anymore?_

"Go ahead, Archangel," Beelzebub was saying.

"What?" he gasped.

Zhe took his chin in one of zir hands, held it with a firm grip. "Wings _out_, Gabriel," zhe said.

He made a soft, broken sound. He still thought they were in the Claridge's bar, but he couldn't help it anymore. With a rush of displaced air, thirty feet of blindingly white wings unfurled into existence, snapping into place behind him. He stretched and rolled his shoulders, gasping in relief. "The humans," he said.

"What humans?" Beelzebub said, zir voice laced with amusement. Gabriel blinked and finally looked around himself. They were outdoors. A light breeze carried the scent of saltwater, and they stood on a sandy shore. A great, inky sea, black and still, stretched to the horizon, reflecting the faint light of the crescent moon. Great cliffs rose up to the west, and trees ringed the shore behind them. There were no humans in sight. In fact, it looked as though humans had never touched this place. Gabriel didn't bother asking where they were. Human geography meant little to him, and he only cared that they were alone now.

"Thank you," Gabriel said, sounding only slightly less wrecked than he felt.

"Oh, it was my pleazzzure," zhe told him. He noted that zhe was back to zir usual tattered attire. "Do you know," zhe said, "I've never actually seen your wings before?" Zhe gave them an appraising glance, and it sent a shudder down him from wingtip to wingtip. This was _so_ much better than having zir admire his cufflinks.

"Don't get cocky, stupid," zhe said sharply, and it was a relief hearing zir address him that way. It felt normal; it felt familiar. "They're a bit ragged, aren't they?"

His relief evaporated in a wave of offended indignation. "Excuse me?" he said. Gabriel craned his head left and right to look at his span. All right, it might have been a little while since he'd groomed his feathers, but no more than a century at most. They looked _fine._

Zhe shrugged. "Don't blame you. I imagine Heaven doesn't go in for a lot of touching. Probably hard to get them properly groomed."

_Oh. _The temptation wasn't particularly subtle, and the implication struck him so hard that he practically rang with it. Demons didn't touch angels' corporations (_except his demon just had_) and they absolutely did not, _could _not, would not _ever_, touch an angel's wings (_except Beelzebub would_). Gabriel's wings were a manifestation of his true celestial form. The thought of a demon touching them was...it was beyond blasphemous. It was simply unthinkable.

_You'll burn_, he told himself.

But he was still shuddering from the aftershocks of Beelzebub's touch, and his entire worldview had just collapsed like a house of cards. He was already ruined; what more ruin could come to him if he gave in to a temptation?

Gabriel wanted so very badly to give in.

He lifted his gaze to meet zir knowing, waiting eyes. "Will you?" he asked, the words rasping out so different from his usual slick baritone.

Beelzebub smiled, dark and vulpine and beautiful.

"Will I what?" zhe breathed. "Will I touch your wings? Will I stroke them? Will I go wrist-deep into those pretty white feathers?"

Gabriel found himself incapable of even making sound, all of his breath caught somewhere between his throat and his mouth.

"Azzk nicely," zhe said.

Gabriel was fully aware that what he was about to do was unangelic, unheavenly, and probably unholy, but the thought of his true self being touched, simply touched, by someone who could _see _him, who _knew_ him—

He had not known what wanting could be. He had not known how it felt to burn from the inside out.

"Please," he choked out. Beelzebub's eyes sparked and flashed.

"Prince Beelzebub," zhe prompted softly.

Zhe was so gorgeous Gabriel thought he might die of it. He was a ruined angel, and the universe was a howling tempest of madness. But inside Beelzebub's lightning-bolt gaze, he felt recognition. A place to rest, a respite from the storm.

He thought he might be Falling, and he didn't particularly care.

"Prince Beelzebub," he said, steady as he could manage, "will you. Will you please." His mouth worked silently for a moment. "Touch my wings."

"Oh, that was _lovely_," zhe murmured. "Since you asked zzzo nicely—"

Gabriel shivered.

"On your knees, archangel."

—

And so, on the silent shores of a wine-dark sea, an archangel of the Lord knelt before a Prince of Hell, his face turned upward in silent supplication.

Beelzebub gazed down beatifically, reaching zir hand out to stroke Gabriel's cheek with long, elegant fingers. Gabriel shuddered, his wings rustling. The corner of zir mouth turned up. "Stay still," zhe said. Zhe walked down the length of his right span, trailing a hand along the wing, zir fingers just barely skimming over the feathers. He could have easily pushed forward to meet zir hand, and he _wanted _to, _Heaven_, he wanted to. But zhe'd told him to stay still. So he knelt in place, trembling, wings motionless, while zhe moved into place behind him.

Gabriel thought about Heaven. Heaven did not, in fact, go in for a lot of touching. Celestial beings were supposed to be above all that sort of thing. Even grooming your own wings was considered a sign of vanity and therefore to be avoided. Gabriel did it anyway, having never given much credence to vanity as a sin. (And as an archangel, he had of course been incapable of doing wrong, a thought that now brought a sharp lump to his throat.)

But Gabriel's feathers had never, in six millennia, been touched by another being.

Beelzebub stood so close behind him that he could feel the heat radiating from zir. His wings were open to zir, his feathers exposed and vulnerable. He knelt in perfect stillness, waiting. He could wait for eternity, he thought, here in this moment with Beelzebub standing over his wings.

Without warning, zhe stroked a single finger down the length of Gabriel's outermost primary. It felt _unspeakable._ He cried out, bracing his fists against his thighs.

"Zzzenzzitive?" zhe murmured.

"It's—" he choked, "nobody has— it's just—" He sounded like a fool, but zhe was _still stroking his feathers_ and his higher cerebral function seemed to have shut itself off temporarily.

"Mm," zhe said. "I zee."

Zhe was methodical, and slow, smoothing down each primary feather in turn, slicking oil along them to make them shine. Zir fingers were clever and skillful, easing a bent feather here, slipping a secondary into place there. Occasionally zhe scraped a blunt fingernail along the inside of one, which invariably elicited an embarrassing noise from Gabriel.

"I thought this would hurt," he gasped after a while.

Beelzebub paused zir work momentarily. "Would you like it to?" zhe asked.

Gabriel sucked a breath in through his teeth. Beelzebub chuckled behind him, pushing zir hands deep into his secondaries.

"Poor angel," zhe said. "You barely even know which way is up right now, do you?"

He should probably be offended by that, but it's not like zhe was wrong. "Why aren't you—_nnh_—why aren't you affected by—" He waved his right arm vaguely to indicate _all of this._ "We both saw six thousand years of planning get flushed down the drain, so why aren't you…" He trailed off.

"Having a crizziz of faith?" zhe said, so close to his ear that he could feel the buzz from zir lips.

He nodded.

Zhe was quiet for a little while, stroking and straightening his feathers. When zhe spoke, zhe sounded calm, measured, different from zir usual brash self. "Gabriel," zhe said, "I had no faith to lose. I have always known exactly what I am, and what I am hasn't changed."

_But I have. I've changed._

He collapsed inward on himself as though zhe'd struck him, pulling his wings away from zir fingers. Zhe tutted at him. "None of that, now. Come back here."

And he did, letting zir work zir fingers back into his wings, letting out a little sob he didn't even bother to suppress.

Beelzebub hummed. "Poor archangel," zhe said again. "Did you really think you were infallible?"

"Yes," he said in a thick, choked voice. "Yes, but—"

He fell silent, and zhe did not press him to continue. It was several minutes before he finally said, "I think I'm Falling. Now."

Zir hands stopped, his sensitive, delicate tertials held in zir fingers. "No," zhe said after a while, "you're not. I would know."

Gabriel stared at his hands. Zhe _would_ know, and he didn't think zhe'd lie to him. Not about this. But if he wasn't Falling—

"Then what am I?" he whispered.

"Can't believe you don't know the answer to that," zhe said. "Idiot angel. So pretty and so _very_ stupid."

His cheeks reddened—damned corporation—and he found he couldn't bring himself to ask zir what in the Heaven zhe meant. Especially because zhe was deep into the secondaries on his right side now. Zir long, clever fingers slicked and stroked and smoothed, and he couldn't even think properly. It was stunning, intense, filling him as though he were a pressure vessel, pleasure building up inside him until he shook with it, tears dripping down his cheeks.

Zhe shoved zir hands deep into his wings and dragged zir short, blunt fingernails down them. Gabriel arched his back helplessly and sobbed out a wordless noise. "_God_," he gasped. "Why— why is this so—oh, fucking _hell_—"

Beelzebub slicked oil over a feather and then Gabriel felt a strange chilly sensation and realized zhe'd just _blown_ on it. "If you were a human," zhe said, terribly close to his ear again, "you'd be about to have an orgasm. Messy, sticky. But you haven't even made an Effort, have you?"

He shook his head mutely. Never really saw the need for one. He wondered if he was going to have to make one in order to release this maddening, blinding pressure. Or maybe he would just live with it forever. Just following Beelzebub and writhing around at zir feet. There were worse ways to spend eternity, he thought hysterically.

"Courzze not," Beelzebub said, twisting zir fingers in a way that made Gabriel claw his fingers into the fabric of his trousers and throw his head back. "You don't need one," zhe went on. "I don't either. Sure, we could do what the two morons did and make parts to rub up against each other. But would that feel better than this?" Zir fingers, oh _God_. Zhe was _stroking _his _feathers_. Oh God, oh _fuck_, zhe was _breathing_ on them. Gabriel thought of zir licking one and nearly discorporated from the wave of panicky, desperate need that washed over him.

Zhe was still talking, "and you don't need an Effort for me to do _thizzz_ to you, archangel."

Zhe slid zir thumbs over the spots on his shoulder blades where the wings attached and shoved _hard _before dragging zir nails downwards through his feathers. Gabriel keened loudly and swore as all the stars of the universe whirled and wheeled behind his closed eyelids.

—

_Interlude_

Gabriel gasped for air that his corporation technically didn't need, until he realized dimly that there was no air to breathe. He reached out with the memory of hands, and found only void. _Jesus, Beez_, he said with nonexistent vocal cords, _I think you knocked me straight out of my corporation._

His multitude of eyes opened up and saw not Earth, but the strange, shifted geometry of the celestial plane. He stretched his true self, feeling sensation return to bits and pieces that he hadn't truly inhabited for millennia. He _liked_ his terrestrial body, was quite proud of it, in fact. But there was really no substitute for spreading out both sets of your wings and opening every last one of your eyes.

A presence nearby radiated warmth and heat. He gravitated towards it, and saw that it was long and lithe, with massive wings that were blacker than night, outlined like silhouettes against the scattershot backdrop of the stars.

_Beelzebub?_

_Gabriel._

Zir true face was so beautiful he could hardly bear to look at it, but even less could he bear to look away. Zir essence radiated from zir. He wanted to bask in it, _bathe_ in it. He wanted very badly to touch zir.

Beelzebub shifted zir wings, stars flickering around the edges as the feathers ruffled in the celestial wind.

_Haven't taken this form for a long time. Since the beginning, almost. Wasn't sure I still could. _

The thought appeared in his mind as though he'd thought it himself, but he hadn't. Gabriel drifted closer, drawn in.

_I've never seen your wings before, Prince._

Zhe extended them out fully, a slow, languorous stretch that made Gabriel think of a satin blanket unrolling over the stars. His need to touch them, to sink his hands deep into them, was so powerful he trembled with it.

_I don't have them on Earth. They burned in the Fall. Only here._

Burned—_burned_—Gabriel's chest went tight and hot. How could anyone—

_Careful, Archangel. Ask too many questions and you'll end up ruined like me._

He turned twenty sets of glowing cerulean eyes on her.

_Don't say—you're not ruined. Never ruined._

He'd drifted even closer, so close that zhe could close zir massive wings entirely around him if zhe wanted to. He was close enough to touch zir, and oh, had he thought he'd felt want before, known what desire was? He'd been a child. _This_ desire consumed him like holy fire; his entire self contracted into nothing more than the need to touch, to stroke, to _enfold._

Beelzebub knew what Gabriel wanted before he could even ask. Zir wings lifted up and away from him.

_Stupid angel_. _You'll burn. _

He stilled himself for a moment, clasping his hands together tightly to stop himself from reaching for zir.

_I won't. You said we were of the same stock. You said we could touch, and we did._

The echo of distant laughter, rumbling and resonant.

_On the terrestrial plane, angel. This is different. You know it is. Our true forms._

_I don't care. I want to enfold you_.

Silence fell, the silence of the universe witnessing something truly new. In the entire span of Creation, this had never, _ever_, happened between an angel and a demon.

Beelzebub's wings trembled. _You know we can't._ _It's never been—you'll burn, you idiotic angel. _

Gabriel noted that zhe had not said zhe didn't want to.

_We can. _

He might Fall for this. He might die. Really die, cease to exist. Beelzebub's true form might incinerate his soul. _Zhe_ thought it would, and zhe was smarter than him.

He could admit that now. He could admit lots of things.

_Angel, don't. _

Zhe was afraid for him. He could feel it in zir thoughts. How novel, having someone care if you lived or died. It was, he thought, a day for firsts.

_I have to, B. I love you too much not to._

Zir wings jerked in surprise. Well. If he was about to burn himself out of existence, then at least at the very last he wouldn't be a coward.

_You—_

_Yes._

_Since—_

_Since the airfield. Took me a little while to realize. _

He felt zir shocked fabric of space rippled around them like a lake disturbed by a thrown stone. It would have blown out the entire electrical grid of Britain, had they still been on Earth.

Gabriel closed the distance between their two forms. He'd never done this before, never had a reason to, never wanted to. There'd never been anyone to do it _with_. And enfolding forms was dangerous, even when neither party was a demon. With a demon — well. Didn't matter. _This_ demon was worth it.

Fuck Falling; if he was going to go, he was going to fucking well _jump._

_My turn, B._

_Gabriel, wait— _

He slid his hands into the black silk of zir feathers.

_Oh— God — _

The universe held its breath. Where Gabriel and Beelzebub touched, their forms lit like a supernova, radiant and blinding-bright.

_This is it_, Gabriel thought, and then, strangely, _God, please don't let him burn, please. _He realized that he was thinking Beelzebub's thoughts...or zhe was thinking his...or maybe they were thinking each other's…

Or maybe there was no other. The edges of their forms blurred and Gabriel and Beelzebub became a single shining star in the firmament, two bodies and two minds existing entirely as one.

_Not burning— no, it's good— oh, God, it's good — I've wanted you — need you — ruined for you. _

Gabriel went senseless with ecstatic bliss, as though his entire consciousness were a single vibrating feather that zhe, he, they, were stroking, over and over and over again.

It lasted for a time. A day, maybe, or a year, or possibly a millennium, joined together in the stars, wheeling and twisting in union.

Eventually, gradually, he started coming back to himself, thinking thoughts that were at least partially his own. This, too, took some time. Being twined with Beelzebub was comfort, warmth, and ecstasy all wrapped together, and he was half-tempted to simply stay merged for the rest of eternity. But he'd miss seeing zir face. And they could always do this again sometime.

Oh, that was a thought. Yes, they would _absolutely_ be doing this again. Gabriel shuddered from stem to stern as he let himself separate from zir essence, flowing back into his own form.

_You blessed idiot. _

Gabriel smiled. Beelzebub was coming back to zirself as well, it would seem.

_Did you like it?_

Irritable fluttering. _Did I like it, he says. Of course I bloody liked it, you stupid git. It's only celestial ecstasy, only enfolding with my bloody angel._

A heart that technically only existed on a different plane of reality trip-hammered in Gabriel's chest. _My angel_, zhe'd said.

_It's not a question of liking it, it's — did you even think — you could have _burned_, Archangel._

He wrapped his wings around zir.

_I didn't burn. I'm here._

_I know, you great bloody arse, but you could have. You'd have gone. _Zhe was warm, pulsing heat against him where he folded his wings around zirs.

Gabriel startled. It had not actually occurred to him that he would be missed. That _zhe_ would miss him. That his loss would leave a hole in zir life the same way that zhe would leave one in his. Perhaps zhe also felt his absence when they were apart; perhaps zhe counted the days until they saw each other again.

Gabriel felt the universe knitting its fractures back together into an entirely new, and not unwelcome, shape.

_I would never_. That was true. And, he realized, it would always be true.

A long pause.

_See that you don't, angel._

Gabriel smiled.

—

Zhe rested quiet inside the cradle of his wings for a time after that. Gabriel felt open and hollow, full of light. His mind drifted pleasantly for a while, feeling Beelzebub's wings push against his from time to time and shivering with the pleasure of it. He thought of Aziraphale, and knew with sudden certainty that had Gabriel succeeded in killing him, his last thoughts in life would have been of the demon Crowley.

What a strange, mortal thing love could be.

Beelzebub stirred in his wings. _Come back with me_, zhe thought. _You have too many eyes out here. And I'm cold._

_You said—_

Zhe'd said Princes of Hell didn't get cold.

_They do now. Come home with me, Gabriel._

—

_One week later_

Gabriel faced Beelzebub across an expanse of white linen tablecloth, frowning at the small confection zhe held in zir hand.

"Come on, angel. You never did get around to trying the food last time. We had a deal."

Gabriel had half-hoped that with everything else that had happened, zhe'd have forgotten that small detail. But he should have known better. Beelzebub never forgot anything.

He'd burned a few miracles to restore Claridge's. It turned out they'd only been gone for about a day. The staff had managed to clean up the broken glass, but the bar still looked like… well, it looked like 30 feet of archangel wing had smashed straight through it. Beelzebub watched, smirking, while Gabriel snapped his fingers to repair the broken mirror and shelving and replaced all of the smashed bottles. The electrical system of the building had burned out completely. Gabriel didn't know a blessed thing about wiring, and so the electric at Claridge's now functioned _without_ any actual wires to run through, which should be a exciting discovery for the building inspector on his next visit.

The humans needed no miracles at all; Claridge's training prevailed. The staff was well-practiced at not noticing all manner of things. An angel manifesting wings, blowing out the building's electricity, destroying the bar, and then vanishing into the aether was a _bit_ outside the usual boundaries, but nothing they couldn't handle. And the bar seemed to have, er, repaired itself, so that was all… fine.

And now Gabriel was supposed to _eat. _"What's this called, again?" he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Macaron. Put it in your mouth or I'll shove it there for you."

Gabriel leveled a look at zir, then sighed theatrically and opened his mouth. With a smirk, Beelzebub pushed the macaron into it.

"Huh," he mumbled from around the mouthful of pastry. He chewed, swallowed, looked thoughtful. It was… okay. "That was less disgusting than I thought it'd be."

Beelzebub grinned. "Have another."

"You're tempting me, demon."

"Yeah, well, you're a piss-poor thwarter, angel."

—

They were well into their second postprandial bottle of merlot when Gabriel cleared his throat and set his glass down on the table. Beelzebub, sprawled in zir chair across from him, lifted an eyebrow.

"I, uh," he said. "Asked for a transfer. To Earth. Since, you know, our previous operative is out of commission."

"Did you," Beelzebub said, giving zir glass a lazy swirl.

"Seemed like a smart move."

Zhe smirked. "A first for you, then." Before he could react, zhe went on. "Funny that, though. Home Office is transferring me to Earth as well."

Gabriel's heart skipped. He'd not allowed himself to hope. "Guess I'll have to work on my thwarting, then."

"Guess you will." Zhe grinned like daggers.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, working their way through the rest of the wine. After a time, Beelzebub shot him a glance over the lip of zir glass. "Zzo, did you ever figure it out?"

"Figure what out, Beez?"

"I told you _not_ to call me that. Figure out what you _are_, you nitwit."

He met zir eyes across the table and remembered with perfect clarity the moment they'd locked eyes across the clearing dust of the airfield.

_I'm your bloody angel_, he thought. _Until the end of all days._

"Yeah," he said. "I'm the archangel fucking Gabriel." And he grinned.

Beelzebub's laugh rang through every dimension, and Gabriel was exactly where he wanted to be.


End file.
